Desire of the Bleeding Heart
by Emu
Summary: Just what does Severus Snape see when he gazes upon the mirror of Erised? Sometimes it's best not to know what you really want. The classic question with a twist. Possible DH spoiler. One or two curse words and a dark theme.


Emu: Hey there, ho there sports…er…Harry Potter fans. Here's a little plot bunny that decided to take up residence in my brain. Personally, I thought that Snape's backstory as revealed in Deathly Hallows was cliché and somewhat unsatisfying (this is my opinion, please don't disembowel me for it). So, I thought it might be a fun to give his sad tale of unrequited woe a twist. Please enjoy.

Desire of the Bleeding Heart

He had avoided the mirror as though it were the plague. He knew that the moment he glanced at it he would forever be infected, no, _tainted_ by its cruelly indifferent reflection of his heart's most desperate desire. Yet, knowing this, he ultimately still decided to seek it out. It was a decision fueled by endless nights of pacing up and down the corridor, of flirting with the door handle that would bring him face-to-face with it, of battling the fear and dread that coiled in his guts like a rattlesnake preparing to strike. Tonight, Severus Snape decided to weigh the worth of his soul and wager his sanity because not doing so would immediately forfeit the last shred of sanity that he possessed. He had to _know_.

The corridors were blissfully empty, and why shouldn't they be? It was three o'clock in the morning after all. He had heard somewhere once that 3A.M. was considered the devil's hour. He smirked as he continued down the hallway. If there was any validity to that superstition, then his situation was not only deliciously ironic but seemed to confirm that the universe at large was convinced that he was doomed to an eternity dancing the tango with blood-streaked demons in hell. Or perhaps it merely meant that his insomnia had a sense of humor.

He almost stalked right past the door, but veered abruptly and stared at the last thing standing between him and whatever frightening fate the mirror would hold: the doorknob. His right hand wavered uncertainly above the knob. The rattlesnake in his stomach was suddenly back with a vengeance, shaking and hissing maliciously.

"Do it," he growled to his hesitant hand. "Just grab the bloody thing!"

His hand obediently obeyed and shot swiftly forward to turn the knob. He heard the faint _click_ as the door gave and swung inward. He could see the mirror ahead of himself; his heart throbbed violently behind his ribcage in response.

"Move," he commanded of his stiffened legs. They wouldn't cooperate. "Come on. Just go look. Look and be done with it," he said more forcefully. His legs took one tentative step and then another and another until he was looking right at the dreadful thing.

He carefully kept his gave averted from the cold surface of the glass, choosing instead to read agonizingly slowly the inscription on its frame. His eye trailed left to right and then right to left unscrambling the otherwise nonsensical gibberish. It was a stalling tactic and he knew it. He wanted, well, really rather _needed_ to know what awaited him in the mirror but he couldn't quite throw caution to the wind and unflinchingly stare down the desire of his heart the way he wished he could. No, strutting audaciously up to the mirror and facing himself would be entirely too Gryffindor. A Gryffindor he was definitely not. So, he allowed his eyes to swivel back and forth for many, many minutes before he lowered them as though in defeat. The rattlesnake finally surged forward and sank its fangs deep into his gut.

The green eyes—_those _eyes—appeared first. Then the flaming hair, then oval face, the light freckles, the full lips framing her goddess-like smile. He shuddered. The eyes of a dead woman were looking straight at him. He felt like he should be on his knees, that he should weep shamefully before this heavenly ghost of the past but his legs locked, unyielding.

"Lily." The name whisked out from between his slightly parted lips. He immediately wished that he could recall it. He knew he had lost the right to call her that long, long ago. He reached for the surface of the glass, but the mirror it seemed was not yet done with him.

From behind Lily's left shoulder a dark shadow emerged. The shadow was horrid, twisted, and such a stark contrast to the radiance that Lily's being was drowned in that it was inconceivable for the shadow to be standing there when the light should have vaporized it on the spot. The shadow grinned insanely and crept right up behind the ignorantly joyful Lily. It's hands descended from dark folds of fabric to rest on her shoulders. They moved deftly upwards, following the curve of her delicate neck.

"What?" he gasped uncomprehendingly. The shadow was strangling her. Lily, realizing now that her life was in danger, raised her own hands to her neck and frantically tried to pry the fingers from her throat. Her eyes bulged, bearing a sick resemblance to the dead fish hung from the market venders' stalls in Diagon Alley. She shook ferociously, wiggling with all her might and managed to turn just enough to face her assailant head on. The shadow's two circular abysses sunken into its face that served as eyes glinted happily. Recognition and a terrifying understanding flooded Lily's own horrified eyes. She knew what had brought this on, who was responsible. She knew it was her fault.

He watched in numb horror as Lily's struggles grew faint, as her fingers slid uselessly to her sides, as bitter and regretful tears slid gently down her cheeks. The body—it was no longer Lily—hung limply from the shadow's grasp. The shadow found voice and rasped gleefully.

"Her fault. All her fault. Could have avoided all of this. But you had to be a spiteful little _bitch_, didn't you? Couldn't just forgive and forget. But it's alright now. Now that you've gotten what you deserve thanks to my, MY own two hands. I forgive you." The shadow cradled the body to its chest and started stroking the soft hair. It looked at him and grinned.

"Oh Merlin," he cried. He was staring at _himself_. His locked legs chose that moment to bend and he staggered backwards, one hand extended in front of him as if to shield himself from the atrocity smiling at him. His back hit stone wall and he slid boneless to the floor. His breath heaved in and out. His sharp mind—his most dangerous tool—failed him and he stared in a complete stupor, head shaking back and forth in denial.

"No, no, no, nonononono," he panted, suffocating on air. The shadow threw back his predatory head and laughed. He started trembling from head to toe. And then he too threw back his head in an exact mimic of the shadow reflection and he laughed and laughed and laughed.


End file.
